


touch faith

by lovedeluxe



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aymeric as the Archbishop’s Protégé, M/M, Slow Burn, character tags will be added as people show up so as not to disappoint the audience, mild political drama but we’re here for priest Aymeric not all that bs, or more accurately Aymeric in denial for several chapters, rating is probably going to change to explicit later because of who I am as a person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 23:44:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20416274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovedeluxe/pseuds/lovedeluxe
Summary: The figurehead ward of the Orthodox church and the bastard lord of House Fortemps discover the rather unfortunate number of things they have in common, and still more that they don’t.





	touch faith

**Author's Note:**

> i keep thinking about how aymeric is just an Action Priest(tm) with a sword, so I decided I wanted to make him a priest-priest. why? i don’t wanna get into it. haurchefant is here because i like my church drama with a side of romance
> 
> (actual note: according to the guidebook “greystone” is the collective No Family Name name, which is why it’s aymeric’s last name here. he and haurchefant are not married.... yet.)

For the cathedral’s poster-boy nights were easier, always, than day. With morning came mass, the gathering of children, secretive summons from the Archbishop plotting out hours he could only await and dread. With noontime’s light came unwanted introspection beyond his control, the plague of a brilliant mind caged in circumstances he held no control over. 

Surely _this_ was his element, for better or worse— the pitch black of night.

In the flickering lamp-light of weary candles slowly snuffing in their own wax, Aymeric Greystone’s eyes shimmer intently. The man seated before him, his flesh and blood and bone in the guise of a ruler, seeks even now to hide the truth of his name. Keep him submerged in the dark. 

Aymeric knows this, and he finds it simpler. The love of a family is warm and complicated— and this is his _element._ He takes his place in the dark beside the Archbishop, cold eyes heavy at the lid, watching another candle give itself to the black. Six left.

“My child.” So fond of that turn of phrase is he, as if he revels in the silent cruelty behind two words innocuous to any other. This prodigal son wouldn’t put it past him. “You’ve been giving your utmost, haven’t you? Our place of worship has flourished since I placed you at its head.”

“Aye, father,” he breathes, a call and response. The closest they ever come, ever will come to the tender address of a father and son. “I was... happy. Content to be relied on, when you asked the task of me.” 

“Truly?”

“Truly.” A true falsehood, like every other word he’s been trained to say since the start of his life as a ward of the clergy. Since this man bearing the name of old kings took him from his foster home and burned the truth of their history into his eyes, Aymeric’s heart has beat without skipping— and, somehow, without stopping under the weight of the lie. 

“Full glad am I to know it, then. Know that your sacrifice has made you indispensable to the church, and to me.”

He supposed in hindsight that it was easier learnt early than to have lived blindly devout, even as he sweetly holds the city’s heads underwater with each sermon. _Halone’s grace be your shield, her rage your sword, and our falsehoods the guillotine you kneel beneath._ These kindly souls and chivalrous hearts wouldn’t know what to do with the dark, not like him. This, he must always remember, is his element. 

The Archbishop prattles on, and he shifts like water from his seat, lips pursed to blow out another candle before it can undo itself. Three left, now.

“... Are you listening, child?”

Aymeric starts, slight like the weight of his presence. There is a note of danger in his father’s worn voice, but it doesn’t frighten him— they’re both more than aware of the ease with which he could wring his wrinkled neck. Only Aymeric knows just how close he’s come to doing it, though.

The only thing stopping him is what he’d be without the church— a Greystone cast to the winds, less than a wisp. For all that he has, none of it is his. For all that he knows, even he is a prisoner beneath this man’s thumb.

“Hearken unto me.” Thordan VII crooks a finger, waits for him to stand before the throne. “The time has come for you to fulfill your purpose, understand? The people are enchanted by you, and they know mine own days are numbered. Before I am laid to rest, I would see you crowned.” 

Aymeric is a man carefully trained, but his jaw falls slack for just a moment. “You intend to step down... and hold a ceremony?”

“But of course. It won’t change anything, after all, so long as I live.” A taste like stale ale rises at the back of Aymeric’s throat, lingers, at the assumption that he’d live as a figurehead to a man grasping blindly for immortality. Thordan seems to taste this mistake as well, for he hastens to correct it. “After all... you and I are inseparable. Are we not, my son?”

He’s rewarded with a smile— a drawn, thin thing like the caricatures of real happiness churchgoing children present to him as the congregation thins. “Yes, father. I should be happy to take up the title in your name... I only hope that I may live up to your legacy.”

_And what legacy is that?_ Bitterness without name reflects in the hollows of his mind. _The legacy of a liar, a sire of bastards, a coward? Will the bastard of a coward be a coward in kind?_

One candle remained, wet at the wick.

“In that case, I must needs prepare for what is to come. As you know, ‘tis no simple feat... but mark me now. By the passing of the next moon, my throne shall be yours.” Thordan attempts a smile of his own, but in the smothering shadow it most earnestly resembles the leer of a beast. “Remember my council... we shall meet again before this comes to pass.”

Without another word, Aymeric reaches for the dying flame and snuffs it with his fingers. He finds the ache does not satisfy him.

“You need only call on me... as always. I shall await the signal.”

The heavy shift of robes, a chorus of crooked footsteps echoing in the wide open space made more open still by his departure. Aymeric remains, alone, in the place where he belongs. 

So he was to become the Archbishop, was he? It shouldn’t have been such a shock, with how carefully he’d been groomed since his effective kidnapping. Yet he’d assumed what truly awaited him was a conveniently timed killing— not the crown. Not the throne. Never the country.

Would it change anything, this grand new seat? The life that led him here was a lonely one, and the memories of his sweet stint as a child of House Borel lacked the clarity to comfort him. He craved another glimpse of the world beyond these stained glass walls, yet to do so was akin to treason. _Keep your head down. Remember where you belong. In due time, you will be rewarded...._

“By whom?”

... Now he’s venting his woes to dead candles in empty chambers. Time to sleep had come and passed, yet he would well try. Tomorrow was coming, whether he could bear to face it or not. The coming month would be no gentler.

In a moon, his life would again be irreparably changed— once more by no god, but by another mortal’s greed.

——————

Come morning, he carries the congregation. Though they settle in pews ilms away from his form, loyal believers are taken in hand by Aymeric’s voice, by his weighty cadence of almosts and maybe-sos and with-prayer-in-due-times that no other liar spins quite so sweet. Between empty promises those sharp eyes scan the crowd— seeking out gazes that linger upon him a touch too long, that follow not the song from his lips but the curve they carry. These, he’s been told, are the souls most desperately in need of his guidance; the dark-hearted who come each seventh morning because they crave him more than salvation.

He meets them with a smile, another touch of his grace. These men who blaspheme with their hearts are his treasure, and their silent yearning is insurance that he faces no enemy alone. Later, when the trickle of worshippers has died out, he’ll seek each of them out and feign naïveté. It isn’t dreadful being _wanted_, and Aymeric has never pretended that it was... but at times it sports shades of inconvenience.

Now, for example.

Eyes not unlike his own bore into his frame from the raised platforms reserved for the highborn. A lone interloper, cast in shadow by the alcove’s angle against the sun. The passing months have rendered him sensitive to the looks of his admirers to the point of familiarity— the butcher’s nervous eyes darting from the pulpit to his wife, the grip of knights who think themselves shielded by crowned helms— and this is no longing gaze at his surface. The look affixing him now is piercing, probing, so that easy words catch in this throat. 

It’s not a feeling he’s accustomed to, and so he leads the sermon to a close and bids his listeners good day. With their attention now dispersing, he glares up into the dark. Who was this, to weaponize his calling card against him?

Soft laughter echoes from the chamber above, followed by a shuffling-scraping of wood against marble. The figure swings up out of their seat, dangling over the railing with a smile and a mouthed _“Good day!”_ Thin lips gleam in the light, surely smeared with balm to guard against Ishgard’s bitter chill, but only once the rest have dispersed does the figure step out to approach the pulpit.

Frosted-over hair the color of twilight at a mountain’s peak, eyes blue-grayish and drawn at the corners into an oddly playful smile. Though he sports the armor and stature of a high house knight (Fortemps, Aymeric concludes, noting the coloration) his very gait seems meant to entreat. It’s a face Aymeric doesn’t recognize, yet by demeanor alone he fancies a guess.

“So you are the wolf who’s taken to sniffing around our Knights Most Heavenly, are you?” He inquires, coyly smiling. “A pleasure.”

For a beat that mouth forgets the shape of a smile, earning back an odd pride Aymeric hadn’t realized was taken from him. Then it returns in force with a sparkling laugh like the ringing of the covenant bells, pitched higher than his frame would imply.

“And just as good to meet with you, Father. I’ve a name, though, should you care to hear it—“

“I know you well, milord. Did not my greeting make it clear?” With godsent grace he refrains from regurgitating rumors— though in truth once you’ve heard enough of the same, the accuracy becomes difficult to doubt. “You are Lord Haurchefant... as I said, the one who’s been stealing away with our Temple Knights.” The knight lights up as if from within before attempting to look guilty, and he shakes his head, heart suddenly wrapped in a feeling of exasperated amusement. His tone does not accuse, for he needs not accusation. In the same gentle lilt he serenades the midnight mass with, he presses on, stepping closer with a conspiratorial hum.

“Sermons and speeches aside, I am also oft behind the screen of a confessional. You’ve driven fair many men to lay themselves bare before me... perhaps it’s a talent?”

The last of his words are delivered in a tone even closer to a purr than his average speech, and the man— now Haurchefant beyond doubt— colors at the cheeks as if lashed by a stiff winter wind. “They... they _confess_ it? As they would their sins?”

It’s Aymeric’s turn to smile from the eyes down. “They do not, ser. I must suggest you acquire a talent for calling bluffs, though, for the security of our great nation.” The knight’s eyes draw wide as saucers at the ease of his lie, and that makes his smile wider still. “Please, worry not. I shan’t be the one to deny a man his.... _vices._ So long as none are to be wed, I well doubt Halone would either.”

“Never, Father! Cross my very heart.” Haurchefant seems to move to regain the upper hand, winking brazenly over. It will take rather more than that to rid his mind’s eye of the image of his flushed face, but it’s a start. “Even a man such as I is not without his morality.”

“You sell yourself short, my lord. Perhaps you wish to be praised?” The priest turns on the heel of his boot and bids knight follow with the crook of one long finger, speaking as they walk together. “I know well your deeds, and even the origin of your knighthood. No matter your hobbies, none could rightfully call you a man without morals.” Aymeric feels that candlelight smile shining warm on the back of his neck, but won’t turn to look. “I am curious, though. What brings you here to me today? You do not often pray with company.”

“Though we meet for the first time today, you know me well! Would that I knew so much of you.” 

Another crystal-clear peal of laughter to shake dust from the fixtures, and then he jogs shortly, catching up to walk side-by-side with Aymeric. “Quite right you are, though ‘tis for duty more so than privacy.” Scarcely a surprise, Aymeric supposes, with the nature of his position. Even his vice of choice prompts no judgement— marriage is at best farfetched to a man of Haurchefant’s standing. Love, he supposes, is a luxury meant for the protected… not those who protect.

“Furthermore, I care not for those raised platforms reserved for higher-ups. I would be remiss to leave you with the impression that I think myself above the men and women I serve...”

With a carefree toss of dark hair that surprises them both, Aymeric unlatches the door to his office, holds it open. “You need not explain, my lord. You meant for none to see you present, yes?”

A drawn out nod is his only assent, as if the fact embarrasses him somehow. It alights the curiosity gently smoldering behind Aymeric’s breast since they first locked eyes, and he settles into his seat. “I must ask again: what brings you to me? Your company is most welcome, but I should like to aid you as you seek before we settle into the casual.”

“...” Haurchefant seems to hesitate, blue eyes fluttering shut for a tick of the clock. “Father, I fear that given my reputation, you may not be inclined to believe.”

He’s another well-trained man, voice even to a fault. The only tell to his sincerity is the tangle of his fingers in his own lap. It’s not impossible that he’s simply an expert in portraying false emotion— it would make two of them— but he can’t see what the other stands to gain from it.

“If you wish for my trust, you must first surrender your own. Isn’t that only fair?” Aymeric leans across the desk between them, invitation etched in the quirk of his lips, and Haurchefant accepts with a fresh grin.

“Aye… Pray hear me out, then. I stand before you today seeking counsel in matters of the heart.” At once, Aymeric’s eyes widen just slightly. Of the heart? He’d assumed they both understood the futility of love. “You’ll need to elaborate…”

“I crave for myself a lover true, one who can remain at my side rather than warm my bed and be away with the sun. Yet I know at once that this, I cannot have.” Now his face is even, too. Measured and neutral, though the cadence remains light. “Perhaps a man like you, so noble as to sacrifice the sharing of affections in heart _and_ body, may scoff at such frivolous notions—“

“I do not, ser.”

And that much, he could promise even in his element, was true. How could he deny another their wants when he lived with none of his own?

“You deserve all that you desire and more, I daresay. Would that a man such as I knew how to help you find it…” 

Something behind Haurchefant’s eyes lights up again, affixing Aymeric with a different sort of intent. One he recognizes well, and finds himself shocked to be caught off his guard by. 

“Oh… I suspect that you could if we worked as one, Father. But suddenly my plight is secondary, for I must know. Do men of the cloth truly sacrifice _all_ affections?”

He moves to suppress a laugh, be stern, smite him with cold words. All three of these attempts fail, one by one. “Such a brazen question. Do you think to add me to the tally-marks upon your headboard?” Regrettably, the amusement in his voice is genuine. 

Haurchefant waves his gloved hands as if fending off an attack, surely trying to make him laugh again. “Dash the thought against the rocks. To perish it is simply not enough! Though I’m certain your company would be _heavenly_…”

The look Aymeric levels him with suits neither a priest, nor a man of any faith at all. He doesn’t let up until the tips of those cuffed ears have gone pink. “To appease your studious mind— I have taken no vows of celibacy. I abstain willingly, though, that those with ill intent toward the church cannot sway me with sweet words.”

Now the look is pointed, and Haurchefant laughs again. “Come now… can you truly blame a man for trying? For all the prose the city has to share of your mien, the reality tramples even fantasy.”

“You’re a deal more handsome than I expected, as well…” The knight is open— openly stunned, openly intrigued. Briefly Aymeric wonders how it would taste to give him what he wants, but… “Yet I fear I can give you no more than compliments, my lord. My duties must take priority, so I could never be the lover you seek.” A tilt of the head. “Unless, of course, that was a ruse.”

Again he twinkles like a star before feigning guilt at being caught. It’s little wonder that so many find themselves briefly enraptured; his lack of armor is dreadfully disarming. “Only in part, Father. My desire is true, yet I feared you would turn me away had I confessed to wishing simply to meet you.”

As a mild punishment, Aymeric makes no bid to reassure him that he would not have. “Well, you’ve met me, my lord. Am I to your satisfaction?” 

“To it and well beyond. Looks aside, your kindness is secondary only to your patience…”

“May I confess something to you, Lord Haurchefant?”

He swallows dryly. “Anything!”

“I find myself running short of both.” 

A bark of laughter escapes him, perhaps at Aymeric’s unwavering smile. “Do you grow weary of me?”

“Not of you, ser. Simply weary. To spend a night without rest, to lead the congregation come morning, and then be propositioned by the head of a high house…” 

“It’s no proposition! Not yet. Before anything I wish to know you, Father. Actually, may I call you Aymeric?”

“You may not.” 

Haurchefant seems to find this perfectly hilarious, and in truth so does he. The time to bid him leave was near an hour ago and yet he lingers, basking like a fool in this foreign light.

It can’t last, though. In fact, it can’t even begin.

“Your way home is quite some distance, is it not? You should set out soon, so that you are not caught by the early sunset…” Gracefully he takes the hint, rising from his seat— then offering his hand. 

“It has truly been a pleasure, Father Aymeric.” Their eyes narrow at the change in address at the very same time, and Aymeric concedes, grasping his palm. “If this is you driven to exhaustion, I should like to ease your burdens and see you face the morning fresh.” 

Sweet, sweet. Is it all that he knows how to be? “You are far too kind, my lord.” A moment’s silence. Aymeric opens his mouth to request a release of his hand, but instead: “Should you find yourself again seeking counsel… I am always here.”

That draws a different kind of smile from the lord, big and bright, and he at once wishes he’d kept his mouth shut so that the memory would not haunt him. “I shall. This won’t be the last that you see of me… I pray I’ve given you cause to look forward to it.”

Even now he has yet to let go. Following the path of Aymeric’s gaze, he recognizes this and finally pulls away, taking with him a warmth he hadn’t noticed. “Aye, you have. I look forward to knowing you all the better… professionally.” He’d hoped to hear Haurchefant laugh once more, but the man nods as if to obey. 

“And I you, Father Aymeric.” 

Now untethered with the conversation at its end, he makes for the door. Having no excuse to keep him close, cool eyes watch his departure, watch him give pause with his hand on the frame.

“I know that it is often beyond your control— but should you find the chance tonight, do grant yourself rest.” Warm words, warm like his hands and the gleam in his eye. Perhaps sweet _is_ all he knows how to be. How frightening. 

“Worry not for me… I shall be well. Take care that you sleep well tonight, in turn.” 

Long after he’s made his way back to camp, Aymeric sits alone in the light, the surety of his element breached.

**Author's Note:**

> and that’s chapter one! the second is already halfway written because i take hot priests Very Seriously. it’s my first time writing anything even remotely like this so feel free to share your thoughts, or simply join me in loving haurchefant. see you again soon! ♡


End file.
